The Punching Bag in the Barrel
by SkylaraK
Summary: Booth and Brennan have a new case to work on, but bringing in a new forensic expert adds another dimension to their already changing relationship.
1. A Separate Peace

Punching Bag in a Barrel is the first in a three story arc. This first fic takes place soon after "The Babe in the Bar." Because this arc will cover a decent span of time, it may deviate from Bones canon after that point. All three fics will be case files with a good deal of fluff thrown in. For now, the rating will be T – that may change later, but I haven't gotten that far yet.

Thanks go to the best beta in the world, FauxMaven! I really appreciate all the help you give me, and I'm so lucky you're willing to jump back in after my long disappearances.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Bones, I just like to play with the characters.

* * *

Temperance Brennan's feet dragged as she headed toward her office; the folder in her arms felt heavier than usual. Even though the case they had just closed was straightforward and the paperwork involved was fairly standard, the night ahead—a night of filling in the blanks and checking off boxes—stretched ahead interminably. The reason for her dread was obvious even to her. Normally the end of a case meant an evening with Booth, completing the paperwork with takeout and easy camaraderie. But everything changed with the arrival of Hannah.

Sitting at her desk, with music playing quietly in the background, Brennan watched her team leave the lab. Angela and Hodgins, together despite the fact that Angela had never sought a long-term relationship. Cam, picked up by the daughter she never expected. Only Brennan stayed behind, working her usual long hours. Only after returning from Maluku had she begun to resent the life she had always expected for herself. Only recently had she come to realize how much she counted on Booth's presence in her life and how much she had taken him for granted.

* * *

Three weeks had passed since their last case, and Brennan had only seen Booth twice: once when she dropped off her share of the paperwork at his office, and then in court to testify for a previous case. She kept herself busy, of course. It was easy to lose herself in work at the Jeffersonian. But sometimes she missed him terribly: solitary lunches in the diner, stuck alone in traffic, lonely nights in the lab. She was proud that she was able to keep this side of herself secret. Only Angela questioned her anymore; the others had quickly given up trying to elicit admissions of jealousy or hurt from her.

When she walked into work on a Thursday morning, it was with little hope of anything exciting happening that day. Booth's phone call, coming an hour after she began examining the remains of an unidentified World War I solder, came as a pleasant surprise. He was brief, explaining that he was on his way to pick her up, that local law enforcement in a sleepy hamlet an hour outside of DC had requested their assistance with some remains. She tried to maintain her composure, but the look Angela exchanged with Hodgins suggested that her calm descent from the platform may have been a little too hasty.

She was in her office, just zipping up her jumpsuit, when Booth arrived. He leaned casually against the door jamb, impeccably dressed as always, with a quiet smile playing across his lips. Brennan could almost imagine that this was the Booth of old, _her_ Booth.

"Hey, Bones. How've you been?"

She tried for nonchalance and thought she succeeded. "I'm fine, Booth. How about you? And how is Hannah?"

"We're both good. She's getting bored with the press corps." He shrugged. "And now that we've exchanged pleasantries, how about we get going? We've got a long drive."

* * *

Brennan was relieved to finally arrive at the crime scene. The ride had been long and a little awkward; it was easier to share the minutia of daily life if they actually saw each other every day. There should have been a lot to catch up on, but neither of them seemed to know where to begin. She slid out of Booth's SUV, stretching her legs and surveying her surroundings. Booth had driven down a long access road that ended at a freshwater marsh. There was a police cruiser parked nearby and a sheriff's deputy stood gazing out at the water. It was cold and windy, the bare trees bordering the marsh creaking in the stronger gusts. Heavy dark clouds were rolling in.

"You must be Agent Booth," the deputy said by way of greeting, striding towards them.

Booth nodded. "Yes, and this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute. The remains are up here?"

The man led them along a narrow path that ran along the marsh. "I'm Deputy Lentini, by the way," he told Brennan.

She nodded absently, watching carefully where she was walking—the ground was soft and felt unstable. It was a short walk; just around the corner was a break in the reeds and half-submerged in the water was a tall green trash barrel. The lid was lying nearby, mainly intact but with several small holes chewed in the plastic. Booth pulled out his notebook, flipping it open as the deputy started briefing them.

"Early this morning, a school group came out this way to do a cleanup of the trails. They found the barrel, and when the chaperones looked inside before moving it, they got a nasty surprise. We called you because remains like these are beyond our abilities," said the deputy.

While Booth and the deputy exchanged information, Brennan pulled on gloves and waded into the murky water so she could peer into the barrel. She couldn't make out much. The remains were skeletonized but the barrel was half full of water: clearly there were holes in both ends of the barrel.

"Judging from the skull, it's probably an adult male, Caucasian. Multiple healed fractures. No obvious cause of death that I can see so far," she noted. "We'll need to get the body out of here before I can tell anything else."

After arranging for transport of the body, Booth and Brennan headed back into town. Seeking to prevent another awkward hour in the car, she brought up what she thought would be a good topic for conversation.

"So how's Parker doing?" she asked.

Booth's smile was genuine—like most parents, he loved talking about his child. "Parker's great. He just celebrated his ninth birthday," he enthused.

"Nine, wow. Did he have a party?"

"Yep. He wanted a Harry Potter birthday party, and Rebecca went overboard. She had tons of decorations, the kids had 'classes,' and even a few of the parents dressed up." He paused, grinning in an embarrassed sort of way. "Rebecca made me dress up as Snape."

"What's a Snape?" she asked.

"You mean, 'Who is Snape?' Snape's a person, a wizard. You think he's a bad guy throughout all the books, but he's really good."

"I would have liked to have seen that."

Booth glanced over at her, suddenly awkward. "Oh, well, yeah. I'm sorry I didn't invite you; I just figured it wouldn't be your thing. And I brought Hannah, so…" he trailed off feebly.

"Oh, no, don't feel bad," she said, blushing. "I didn't mean that you should have brought me, I just meant that I've never seen you really dressed in costume. I thought it sounded interesting."

"You've seen me in costume," he protested. "I dress up for the Jeffersonian Halloween Ball every year."

"That doesn't count. A pair of glasses and a lab coat, or a nice suit and a soccer ball isn't much of an effort," Brennan scoffed.

Booth harrumphed. "At least I try to pick something different every year. You're always the same thing."

"You've never complained before. I thought you liked my Wonder Woman costume." She wasn't pouting, not really.

Their conversation fizzled after that, both lapsing into aggrieved silence. As Booth drove, Brennan wondered when her life would get back to normal. She didn't do well with change, and her trip abroad had been change enough. She had been looking forward to picking up where they left off once they got back, but everything was different now. She felt out of sync. She kept waiting for Booth to walk through her doorway, visiting 'just because,' or for Angela to beg her to go out for drinks. Even the interns were different, full of new experiences and new outlooks acquired while she was away. Maybe she wouldn't get her old life back, not the way it had been. Maybe it was time for her to evolve, too.

* * *

A/N: The title of this chapter refers to the novel, A Separate Peace, by John Knowles. The main character reminds me a lot of Brennan, and he has an intense friendship with another boy, who reminds me a lot of Booth. Eventually jealousy sours their relationship, eventually culminating in one of their deaths.


	2. Big TwoHearted River

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, nor do I make any money from this story.

Thanks to the fantastic FauxMaven for her hard work and endless patience.

* * *

Brennan arrived back at the lab later than usual, having enjoyed a leisurely lunch at the diner with Booth. Angela and Hodgins had turned up after a while, and the combination of food and friends eased their conversation. Brennan was pleased to see that the remains had been delivered to the Jeffersonian while they were out; Mr. Nigel-Murray was extricating the victim from the barrel as she ascended the platform. Hodgins and Angela set to work doing an inventory of the debris at the bottom of the barrel. Several large containers of water drained from the barrel also waited for Hodgins' attention. Brennan began articulating the skeleton on the exam table, preferring to let her intern continue digging in the bottom of the wet, algae covered barrel. Everyone worked eagerly; apparently, she wasn't the only one happy to have a case.

She was just ready to begin her examination when Booth ascended the platform. Years of watching the team work had given him impeccable timing. He was moving a little slower than usual; Brennan noticed that he seemed to be compensating for some soreness. They waited for the others to assemble around the table before beginning.

"Alright, squints, what've we got?" Booth asked.

"Our victim is male, with Caucasoid features. Wear on the pubic symphysis suggests he was 30-34 years old." Brennan leaned over the exam table, brow furrowed. "Multiple fractures of the mandible, zygoma, and orbital floor, all with extensive remodeling." She glanced up at Booth. "And the hyoid's fractured."

"Looks like we have our cause of death," Cam remarked. "How long do you think he was out there?"

"Given the state of decomposition and taking into account environmental factors, I'd say at least two years," Brennan said. "Since there isn't much insect activity, I don't know if we'll be able to pin down anything more accurate just yet."

She moved along the body as she continued her exam. "There are more old injuries to the ribs, both radii, and phalanges. Some fractures were never properly set. There's a pattern of healing and re-breaking that suggests a long history of domestic abuse."

"Domestic abuse? But he's a guy," Angela protested.

"Actually, some studies report as many as 40% of domestic abuse victims as male," piped up Mr. Nigel-Murray. "You may remember the incident in 2006 when the wife of a football player was arrested for stabbing her husband."

"That's true," Brennan replied. "Though it seems unlikely that these injuries were inflicted by a spouse—a significant number of them appear to be childhood injuries."

"Okay, but what about an ID?" Booth asked impatiently. "Who's our vic?"

"I tried running the dental records, with no luck," Angela answered. "After Brennan cleans the skull and finalizes the tissue depth markers, I'll try to see if my reconstruction gets us a match."

"Don't forget what we found in the barrel," added Hodgins. "There was a USB thumb drive; there might be some identifying info on it."

"He didn't have a wallet on him or anything?" Booth rubbed his face; Brennan thought he looked tired.

"No, nothing."

"Let's call it a night," Brennan said. "It's been a long day. I'll have the skull ready for reconstruction midmorning; Angela, you can work on the USB drive while I do that. Mr. Nigel-Murray, please have the bones cleaned by morning."

* * *

Brennan spent her night trying not to brood. It had been easier to ignore her woes when she wasn't confronted with Booth every day; his reappearance brought all her disappointment and regret to the forefront. Every distraction she came up with just served as another reminder of what she had let slip through her fingers. Steady rain beat against her windows, increasing her restlessness. In the end, she spent a few hours tossing and turning before finally falling into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, Brennan felt the effects of her unsettled night. She was responding to emails when she heard Angela arrive. She gathered the books stacked on her desk and headed to her friend's office. Angela was looking tired and pale as well, though that was probably due more to her pregnancy than any trouble sleeping.

"Morning, Bren," Angela greeted her.

"Good morning, Angela. How are you feeling? You look ill."

"Gee, thanks for the compliment," Angela muttered. "I can't brush my teeth without puking, so my morning wasn't so hot. And I've been up peeing constantly for the last couple nights. I didn't think that would happen so soon," she frowned.

Brennan smiled sympathetically. "Frequent urination will abate when your uterus moves higher up in your abdominal cavity. Right now it's still low and putting pressure on your bladder. It will become a problem again later when the fetus becomes larger."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Sounds like fun. Thanks again."

"I have something for you," Brennan told her, indicating the books in her arms. "These are some books I picked up when I was planning on becoming pregnant myself." She took a deep breath, then continued in what she hoped was a neutral tone, "Since my plans have changed, I thought I would give them to you."

Her expression softening, Angela smiled gently. "Oh, thanks, that's so thoughtful."

Brennan set the books on the desk, ready to escape before her friend could start prying. Angela sorted through the books, looking at the covers.

"The Thinking Woman's Guide to a Better Birth? Pushed: The Painful Truth About Childbirth and Modern Maternity Care? Interesting choices, Bren."

"I believe in being well-informed," she said stiffly.

"Well, of course you do." Angela pulled her into a quick hug, which Brennan returned awkwardly.

"I'll have that skull for you shortly," Brennan said, and fled.

* * *

Sitting at a workstation in the lab, concentrating on the reassuringly familiar task of assigning tissue depth markers to the victim's skull, Brennan half listened to Dr. Hodgins chatting with their intern. Before she could finish her task, Angela found her.

"I think I've got an ID," she began. "The USB thumb drive contained a bunch of documents, articles really. Most were works in progress, but a few were labeled as final drafts. I scanned them using software that detects plagiarism, and they were published in different magazines and newspapers under the name Stephen Cunningham."

"Has he been reported missing?" Brennan asked.

"Well, no. But I can't see why else someone would have a USB drive on them with all his articles. The unpublished ones seemed to match his style, but I'm no expert."

"Alright. Let Booth know. I'll finish here and then we can check your reconstruction against this Cunningham."

* * *

The Founding Fathers was bustling when Brennan arrived to pick up her lunch order. She had run out to do a few errands on her lunch break and didn't feel like eating at the diner again. She stepped up to the bar, sidling between two men in suits, to inquire about her order. The bartender told her it would be a few more minutes, so she stepped aside to wait discreetly by the door. As she glanced around the bar, she spotted Hannah sitting by herself at a table nearby.

"Hello, Hannah," she said as she approached the table.

"Oh, hey, Dr. Brennan. I'm just having a quick bite, do you want to sit down?"

"That's okay, I ordered takeout." Brennan fidgeted awkwardly; she didn't really like bumping into acquaintances unexpectedly. Small talk wasn't her forte.

Hannah nodded. "How's it going? Seeley said you had a new case to work on."

"Yes, we're trying to identify the body now. It's proving more difficult than usual."

"Well, you guys are the best, right?"

Brennan smiled. "Yes, we are."

The bartender shouted her name over the noise, holding up a plastic bag with her food in it. Brennan acknowledged him with a wave.

"I have to go, Hannah, but here, maybe you could give this to Booth in case I don't see him today." She opened her back and rummaged around, pulling out a large bottle and setting it on the table.

"Glucosamine sulfate and chondroitin?" Hannah questioned as she read the label.

"Yes, his back has been bothering him. I think it's the rain."

"Did he tell you that?" Hannah frowned.

"No," Brennan said. "I just noticed he was compensating for some stiffness and soreness. These supplements might help."

Hannah nodded and thanked her, saying she would give them to Booth. Brennan smiled and waved good-bye, heading to the bar to pick up her food.

* * *

Brennan was in her office waiting for Angela to finish her reconstruction when Booth called.

"So I checked out this Stephen Cunningham," he said. "His last known residence is about twenty minutes away from where we found the body. He hasn't been reported missing, but he also hasn't published anything in about two years, as far as we can tell."

"You want to check it out?"

"You bet. Pick you up in a half hour?"

Brennan was ready and waiting in ten minutes, with Angela's reconstruction tucked into her bag.

* * *

A/N: The title of this chapter, Big Two-Hearted River, comes from the two-part short story written by Hemingway with the same title. Hemingway's protagonist, Nick Adams, returns from war, shell-shocked, and seeks to relive some of his favorite childhood memories as a way to heal. In the first part of the story, he immerses himself in the small tasks of camping and fishing, avoiding all introspection. I thought that sounded very much like our Brennan.


	3. Chest of Broken Glass

Disclaimer: I own no part of Bones and make no money from these stories.

I put a lot of thought into whether to make The Doctor In The Photo part of this story because I had very mixed feelings about that episode. But I generally prefer to stay in canon, so for this fic, assume events are taking place sometime after The Doctor In The Photo.

Thanks so much to FauxMaven for not only helping me with this chapter, but also for talking out the issues that came up after this past episode. You're the best!

* * *

The house listed as Stephen Cunningham's last known residence was rundown. The paint was peeling in some places and spotted with black mold in others. The gutters needed cleaning—it looked like several small saplings were growing out of the overflowing debris, and water was pouring over the edges rather than flowing through the downspout. Neighboring houses all looked to be in fairly good repair; this one definitely stuck out, and not in a good way. Booth opened his umbrella as he got out of the car, then came around to Brennan's side so she could duck under the umbrella with him. Their approach up the front walkway was anything but quiet as they slipped and slid across a solid carpet of wet dead leaves. Booth and Brennan exchanged glances, both thinking that it looked as if the place could have been vacant for the last two years. Booth rang the bell; they were both surprised when someone opened the door.

"Hello, I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, and this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," recited Booth. He held out his badge for inspection, and then pocketed it.

The man peering out from the gloomy interior looked like he had once been powerfully built, but had since gone slightly to seed. He was still large, quite broad in the chest and arms, with a substantial accumulation of visceral fat. His expression turned belligerent as soon as Booth identified himself.

"What do you want?"

"I'm looking for a Stephen Cunningham."

The man snorted. "What do you want my pansy ass brother for?"

"Is he here?" Brennan asked.

"No, don't know where he is. Been gone years, and good riddance."

"Do you mind if we come in? We have some questions about him," said Booth.

The man shrugged, turned and walked into the dark interior of the house. They followed him into a shabby living room; the room was dark and claustrophobic with the curtains drawn. The man turned on a dusty lamp before falling into an old recliner. Booth and Brennan sat gingerly on the sofa.

"Can I have your name?" Booth began.

The man grunted. "Dave. I'm Stephen's older brother."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Must be a little more than two years now." He scratched his head. "It wasn't cold yet, I don't think. Still have the note, could look up the date for you."

"What note?" Brennan inquired.

Dave rolled his eyes. "Stephen's always been a little wuss. Couldn't just come up to me, say he was leaving, you know? Sent me a goddamned email, saying he'd had enough and was going to go live someplace where people would appreciate him. Not much chance of that, but whatever. Left me with our parents. He doesn't even send money to help, I had to go get a job." He looked particularly bitter about that.

"What does Stephen do for work?"

"He's a freelance writer. Gets himself published in those damn bleeding-heart liberal newspapers. I don't read any of that shit," he sneered.

An alarm sounded from somewhere deeper in the house, startling Brennan. The brother grunted as he heaved himself from the chair.

"Got to give my mother her meds. You can stay there; I'll be back in a few."

He left the room; they could hear him climbing the stairs. Booth leaned over to Brennan and said quietly, "Don't tell him that his brother's dead."

Brennan blinked in surprise. "First of all, we don't know that our victim is his brother. But why wouldn't I tell him?"

"The abuse, Bones," Booth shook his head. "Don't you think this guy could have been the abuser? He doesn't seem too worried about his brother."

"But what does not telling him gain us?"

"We'll check him out and then call him in for questioning. I want to know more about this guy before we give anything away."

"Is this your gut talking to you?" she asked.

"Yes, and I'll have you please not use that tone about my gut," Booth muttered.

Brennan smirked and rose from her seat. She walked over to an old upright piano that had several pictures perched on top. The first few she inspected were of children and not much help. But then she spotted it—a picture of a young man dressed in a cap and gown, most likely a college graduation. He looked happy; an older couple—probably his parents—stood on either side of him, beaming proudly. She took Angela's facial reconstruction out of her bag and compared the two pictures; they were clearly the same person.

She nodded at Booth, murmuring, "It's a match."

When the man came back into the room a few minutes later, both Booth and Brennan were seated on the couch, waiting patiently.

"What's wrong with your mother?" Brennan asked. Booth shot her a disapproving look.

"She had a stroke ten years ago. Been going downhill ever since. Dad was ill for a long time, too. Cancer. Stephen was such a good little nurse to them," he smirked. "Now I'm stuck here doing it. At least it's just Mom now."

"We only have one more question, Mr. Cunningham, if you don't mind," Booth said. "Does your brother have any friends, girlfriends, old co-workers, anyone else we could talk to?"

He grimaced emphatically before answering, "You won't find any girlfriends. If you want to talk to someone who knows him, try Brent Fox. He works at Bank of America down the street, he's a loan officer."

"Thank you, Mr. Cunningham," Booth said. "If you could just give us a copy of that note, we'd appreciate it."

"And do you have any pictures of him we could borrow?" Brennan added.

"Sure. You still haven't said what you want Stephen for, though," he commented.

"We just need to talk to him. I'm sorry that we can't be more specific," Booth replied.

* * *

In the car, with a printout of Stephen Cunningham's farewell email in her bag along with several old photos, Brennan turned to Booth.

"Do you want to go check out that friend or go back to the office?" she asked.

Booth thought for a minute, rubbing his chin. "Let's go back. I've got the feeling that this is our guy; I want to get to work on this angle first."

"Well, he definitely seemed strong enough to be able to cause the damage we found in the bones," Brennan remarked.

"What I don't understand is why the parents never did anything about it, if it was him. If Stephen was living with them, they had to have known what was going on."

"They may have been too ill to notice," Brennan suggested. "Or maybe their son bullied them, too. And besides, we don't know for sure that it was his brother that was abusing him."

Booth just hummed in response, looking troubled. Brennan looked out the window, watching as they sped past industrial zones and shabby strip malls interspersed with wooded areas, bare trees bowing in the wind. Rain coursed along the window. She thought of what it must have been like to suffer years of abuse at the hand of an older brother, a person who was supposed to love and protect rather than hurt and torment. Then a thought occurred to her.

"Oh, Booth, I just realized. This case must be hard for you, since you were abused as a child." She thought of suggesting he talk to Sweets, but knew he'd decline.

He looked at her, his gaze inscrutable. He turned back the road and said, "You know, Bones, you say things like that and—," he paused, clenched his jaw. She waited for him to finish, but he remained quiet. She shrugged and returned to staring out the window.

* * *

Brennan's first stop after returning to the Jeffersonian was Angela's office. When she walked in unannounced, she found Angela and Hodgins sitting on the couch, his left arm around her shoulders and his right hand resting on her lower abdomen. It was such a tender, private moment that Brennan considered turning right around and leaving, but they quickly disentangled themselves and Hodgins got to his feet.

He cleared his throat. "I haven't been able to find much of interest by way of particulates," he said. "While the body was somewhat protected in the barrel, it wasn't airtight by any stretch of the imagination."

Brennan nodded and he continued, "As for what else was in the barrel, most of his clothes have decomposed; there were only a few shreds left. Along with the USB thumb drive, we found two broken pieces of a silver chain, probably a necklace. It looks like there's a section missing, though. And his shoes—pretty generic, size 10. Nothing really noteworthy on the shoes, either: some gum, a small granite pebble. Everything else was washed away."

"Okay, Dr. Hodgins, thank you," Brennan said. She turned to Angela. "I have an email that was supposedly sent from the victim. Could you take a look at it?"

"Sure," she said as she accepted a quick kiss on the check from Hodgins as he left. "I'm no expert, though."

"I know, Ang."

She handed the printout over and waited while the artist read through it a few times.

Angela's brow furrowed and she bit her lip before saying, "I don't know, Bren. It seems pretty similar to his style, but it still feels off somehow. Maybe Sweets should look at it?"

"I've got a better idea. Do you know Dr. Gates? He's a linguist here at the Jeffersonian."

* * *

A/N: The title of this chapter, Chest of Broken Glass, comes from a story you can find in The Book of Virtues. Simply put, it's a morality tale with the message of: Honor Thy Father and Mother.


	4. The Velveteen Rabbit

So sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. December has been a very busy month.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, nor do I make any money from these stories.

Thanks so much to FauxMaven for not only giving me some wonderful suggestions for this chapter, but also for coming up with the title.

* * *

The cursor on the computer screen blinked tauntingly, waiting for Brennan to come up with something worth writing. She had agreed to write another novel once she had returned from Maluku but was having difficulty getting started. The plot was already outlined and she knew what direction she wanted to take her characters, but the words were not flowing as they usually did. She had called Dr. Jason Gates, a linguist, to ask if he would assist in their case, and he'd sounded happy to hear from her. He had told her he would come by her office after a meeting with another colleague, and she had thought she would use the wait to knock out a chapter. Obviously, that wasn't going to happen. She drummed her fingers on her desk, frowning at the screen.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

Dr. Gates was standing in her doorway, leaning on the frame, his hands in his pockets. He was a good two or three inches taller than Booth and broader in the chest and shoulders, and just as attractive. His hair was lighter, a sandy brown, rumpled in that carefully disheveled look. A satisfied smile spread across his face; clearly he had noticed her assessing gaze.

"Hello, Dr. Gates. No, I was just working on something. Thank you for coming over," she said.

"Not a problem. I'm glad you called. How was Maluku?"

She grimaced. "Disappointing, actually. How have you been? I read the article you wrote a few months ago on the place of forensic linguistics in the courtroom."

"You did? And what did you think?" he asked, amused.

"You made a good case. I'll admit to being skeptical; I had thought of linguistics as soft, like psychology. But your statistical analyses seemed solid."

"Well, thanks."

"You're welcome."

There was an awkward pause; then Dr. Gates cleared his throat. "So, Agent Booth is back and you're back to working on solving murders, huh?" He hesitated for a second before asking, "Are you two still, uh…" he gestured vaguely.

"We were never," she said quickly.

He looked bemused. "Oh. But your friend, Angela, told me, after you shot me down last year," he smiled, to show that there were no hard feelings. "She said that you declined because of Booth."

Brennan shook her head. "No, we were never romantically involved."

"Oh. Well. Okay then," he said, brightening. "So, what did you want me to look at?"

She brought him up to date on their case, then handed him a CD that was on her desk. "There's a copy of the note, as well as all the other files we found on the USB thumb drive. That should be a sufficient corpus for you to work with, right?"

Dr. Gates shrugged. "Hopefully. So you just want my opinion as to whether or not he wrote the note himself? Or do you want me to compare it to other possible authors?"

"We only have the brother as a suspect, and I doubt if there are any significant writing samples to compare it to. Maybe if Booth gets a warrant, we could get you copies of his emails."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I'll take a look at this right away and get back to you. If you find anything else for me to compare it to, let me know."

"I really appreciate your help, Dr. Gates," she said.

"Call me Jason. You know, it should only take me an hour or so, maybe we could meet for coffee and go over what I find?" he smiled hopefully.

"I'm sorry. I would, but I have an appointment with Booth and our psychologist this afternoon."

He looked startled at her excuse, but chose not to comment on it. With a nod and a little wave, he left her office. Brennan, for her part, admired the view as he left. While many of the academics that worked at the Jeffersonian favored suits (and poorly tailored ones, at that), Dr. Jason Gates did not. His jeans fit quite nicely, she thought.

* * *

Brennan arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover Building early for their appointment with Sweets, hoping that Booth would have some new information about their case. She was grateful to be able to park in the attached garage; pouring rain was one of the few things that made her drive instead of walk to the FBI offices. Booth was on the phone when she knocked on his door; he glanced up, smiled, and motioned for her to come in. She sat down opposite him, watching as he fidgeted with his pen, twirling it between his fingers. He wrapped up his phone call quickly.

Booth nodded at the phone, now cradled in the base. "I was just arranging to bring David Cunningham in for questioning. You won't believe what I found out."

"I'm guessing that you found out that he was the abuser," Brennan said.

"That's right. Four years ago, David Cunningham was arrested for beating his younger brother, Stephen, almost to death. He was convicted and spent 18 months in prison. Stephen was in the hospital and then in rehab for 6 months."

"What about the older injuries?" she asked.

"There were never any convictions. CPS had investigated the family years ago, suspecting abuse, but it looks like the case fell through the cracks."

"So there was, what, six months between when his brother was released and when our victim went missing? Was the brother living at home with him? Wouldn't the victim have a restraining order or something?"

"No, there was no restraining order. But one of the conditions of his parole was that he had to live elsewhere. At some point, he decided to ignore that restriction and moved in, because about a month before our victim went missing, the brother's parole officer visited the house, found him living there, and gave him hell for it. The brother promised he'd move out, and by the time the parole officer checked on the situation again, our victim had already vanished."

"I guess it's looking pretty bad for David Cunningham," she commented.

"That's putting it mildly." Booth stood up and then asked, "Ready to go see Sweets?"

They both rolled their eyes and headed out of the office.

* * *

Their visit with Sweets was shaping up to be one of their most boring sessions. No role playing, no trust building exercises, just chatting. They discussed the case briefly. Brennan thought Sweets might bring up Booth's history as a victim of abuse, but he didn't, and she followed his lead. She realized that she had overstepped some boundary or perhaps been tactless by mentioning it earlier, and she had no desire to cause any more friction between them. Sweets, who had been reclining comfortably in his chair, leaned forward. She could tell he was about to open a line of questioning that they might not enjoy.

"I'd like to talk about how Hannah's presence in Agent Booth's life has changed your relationship," he said, gesturing to Booth and Brennan.

Booth frowned. "What do you mean? Hannah hasn't changed my relationship with Bones at all." He glanced at her. "Right?"

"Well, actually…" Brennan faltered briefly. She took a breath before continuing, "We do see each other a lot less. Socially, I mean."

At the all too familiar, almost eager look on Sweets' face, she hastily clarified, "And that's totally normal, of course. In our society, it's frowned upon for men in committed relationships to socialize with single women, especially if there's a…a shared history."

Both men were staring at her; she felt like she needed to explain more. "I don't have a problem with Booth adjusting his social life accordingly," she said. "In fact, I expected it, since Booth places considerable value on being honorable and respectful of women."

"Bones," Booth said hesitantly. "Hannah never asked me to stop hanging out with you. I didn't tell her about—" he paused, changing tacks. "I don't want you to think she—"

"Of course not," she interrupted. Sweets was watching their back-and-forth in fascination. "Hannah is very self-assured. While other women may have viewed me as a potential rival, she seems both independent and self-confident. Plus, if she knows you at all, she must realize that you have no interest in me whatsoever, and you're unlikely to be unfaithful." She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"You said you don't have a problem with the change in your relationship with Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, but it must be difficult adjusting. You and Booth used to spend a lot of time together outside of work, correct?"

She shrugged. "Well, before Booth came along, I never really did much socializing at all. I'm used to being alone." She hated the pity she could see in the psychologist's eyes, and so continued even more dispassionately, "Actually, this is a good thing. Remember, Booth, I told you during Heather Taffet's trial that I suspect that all these interpersonal entanglements have compromised my objectivity? Well, your relationship with Hannah, and Angela's and Hodgins' preoccupation with her pregnancy are helping me regain my objectivity."

"Nobody is that cold, Dr. Brennan," Sweets said. Booth was looking rather uncomfortable. "Surely this is affecting you emotionally."

"It's not," she said stiffly. "I don't appreciate your questioning my ability to feel emotion."

"Sweets, leave it alone, okay?" Booth said gruffly. "We know Bones has a heart, she's just not the jealous type."

The young psychologist took a moment to assess Booth and Brennan, who were both looking distinctly put out, though probably for different reasons. With a shrug of his shoulders, he changed the subject. The rest of their session passed without incident, though Brennan was considerably more reticent than usual. Sweets had definitely hit a nerve. He couldn't have known that for the last several months she had felt distanced from her friends, separated as though by a veil—able to see and talk with them, but still not quite with them. He also couldn't know how desperate she was to close that gap, to remove the veil, to regain her sense of belonging. Booth overcompensated for her silence, and she appreciated his effort.


	5. Make Much of Time

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, nor do I make any money from these stories. Just having some fun.

Thanks as always to the Fantastic FauxMaven!

* * *

Booth accompanied Brennan to the elevator, as was their custom after a session with Sweets. Even though she was annoyed at the psychologist for bringing up a sore point for her, she felt that she had performed admirably. Booth thought Brennan was a terrible actress, but she thought otherwise. Hiding her hurt and disappointment from her friends and co-workers was taking more effort than she had expected, but she had been laying the groundwork for years. With any luck, things would soon go back to normal—though unfortunately, it would be her pre-Booth normal. They were discussing their next move in regards to the case—Brennan was looking forward to hearing what Dr. Gates had to say about the victim's farewell note—when Booth's phone rang.

"Booth." Holding his phone to his ear, Booth listened for a moment, his face brightening. "Great. Thanks. We'll be down in a sec."

Brennan raised her eyebrows. "Good news?"

"They just brought David Cunningham in. You want to sit in on the interrogation?"

"Of course," she said.

They headed toward the interrogation rooms, a spring in both their steps. Upon entering the room, Brennan noted that their suspect looked particularly surly. They sat at the table across from the suspect and she let Booth take the lead, listening quietly rather than interrupting with her own questions. Booth brought up all the relevant points, questioning David Cunningham about the assault he was convicted of, and the repeated assaults he had inflicted on his brother. Their suspect confessed to all of it, from the years of abuse, to the parole violation, to his relief at having his brother out of the way. It wasn't until he had admitted his guilt in those instances that Booth broke the news that David's brother, Stephen, had been found dead.

"Oh, I get it," he said, rolling his eyes. "The little sissy turns up dead, and you think I did it."

Brennan stared at him, incredulous; his reaction to the news that his brother was dead had to be one of the coldest responses she'd ever seen.

"Wow, you know, you don't seem too upset about your brother," Booth commented.

"Yeah, well, what do you want me to do, pretend? I never liked Stephen, the unnatural little freak. But I don't like jail, either. I may have lived with him when I shouldn't have, but I never touched him after I got out."

"I find that hard to believe," Brennan challenged.

"I don't give a fuck what you believe, bitch," he sneered at her. Then he turned to Booth and said, "I get a lawyer, don't I?"

"You sure do. It'll be a few hours, enjoy the wait," Booth told him, smiling unpleasantly.

* * *

Back in the lab, Brennan scoured Stephen Cunningham's remains for additional evidence, particularly anything that might point to David Cunningham as the murderer. While the circumstantial evidence was strong—she would have no problem illustrating the long history of abuse their victim had suffered at the hands of his older brother—the only perimortem damage to the bones was the fractured hyoid. Most of the trace evidence had slowly washed away, destroying that avenue of investigation. Brennan felt that the burden of proof would fall to the FBI in this case. At least there was still hope. While the FBI forensics team was searching the Cunningham residence, another team was looking into whether there were any traffic surveillance cameras on the route Cunningham was most likely to have taken when dumping the body, and whether the Department of Transportation still had the footage on file.

She was hunched over the exam table when a voice at the foot of the stairs broke through her concentration.

"I thought I might find you here," said Dr. Gates.

Brennan looked up, startled. She motioned for Mr. Nigel-Murray to let the linguist up onto the platform.

"I wasn't aware you were looking for me," she said.

"Well, I tried calling your office and didn't get an answer. I thought I'd check here," he explained, grinning as he bounded up the steps.

"Thank you, Dr. Gates. You've analyzed the note?"

"Yes, and I told you to call me Jason."

"Okay, Jason," she smiled. "What do you think?"

"My provisional opinion is that Stephen Cunningham did not write the note. There were errors in spelling and punctuation that I doubt an experienced writer like Cunningham would commit."

"That sounds like what we might expect from his brother," Brennan suggested.

"The brother did not make a favorable impression with you, Dr. Brennan?" asked Mr. Nigel-Murray.

"No, he did not. He clearly disliked his brother and he was very crude in expressing his opinions." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I can't imagine he would be very eloquent on paper."

Booth arrived, quietly ascending the stairs as he listened to the conversation between Brennan and her colleagues. She and her team nodded their greeting to him, and Dr. Gates continued relaying his assessment.

"Well, whoever wrote it used several fairly unusual collocations that Cunningham favored in his writing, which suggests that the author was smart enough to put some effort into the forgery." He paused for a moment, thoughtful. "And I can't be sure that Cunningham wasn't much more relaxed with his grammar in informal situations. I'd really like to examine some more writing samples to be sure, maybe his email?"

Brennan nodded. "Of course. The FBI is searching his house right now, hopefully they'll find something."

Booth took that as his cue to speak up. "That's right. In addition to searching for evidence of the murder and disposal of the body, forensics will also bring in any computers they find. I've had the local PD interview neighbors and acquaintances; we're getting a good picture of our victim."

"Why are the local police doing it? I thought this was an FBI case," Cam asked, as she, too, joined the others on the platform.

"Local PD called us in for assistance, since they don't have the resources to handle this case on their own. I'm leading the investigation, but it's easiest to have them question the locals," Booth explained.

"Have they talked to the man David Cunningham mentioned? Brent Fox?" asked Brennan.

"No, I'll have him come in tomorrow morning. I'd rather interview him myself, since our suspect mentioned him specifically."

"This is a friend of the victim's?" Cam questioned.

"No, his, uh, partner. Interviews with the victim's acquaintances confirmed that he was involved with this Brent Fox, who he apparently met when applying for a loan. Everyone has told us that Stephen Cunningham was a quiet, modest guy. He always helped out his neighbors when he could, even volunteered at a nearby food pantry."

"Involved? Romantically?" asked Brennan.

At Booth's confirmation, Mr. Nigel-Murray interjected, "Did you know that gay and lesbian high school students hear anti-gay slurs on average every 14 minutes throughout the day?"

"Seriously? That often?" Cam said, appalled.

"On average," Mr. Nigel-Murray nodded. "Twenty-eight percent of gay students drop out of school, and they are also two to three times more likely to attempt suicide."

"That's horrible," Booth frowned.

"Really?" Brennan asked him, surprised. "I thought that your religious beliefs didn't allow for—" Booth held up his hand, giving her such a glare that she was brought up short.

Mr. Nigel-Murray attempted to smooth over the tense moment. "You may have heard about the 'It Gets Better' Project, in which adults post videos on the Internet, showing young people that life drastically improves after leaving school."

"Well, this is all very educational, but let's get back to the case, shall we?" Cam suggested.

Booth cleared his throat. "Like I said, I'll talk to Brent Fox in the morning. Hopefully we'll get something for the linguist to look over." At this he paused, giving Dr. Gates an assessing gaze. Scowling slightly, he turned to Brennan. "You'll come by tomorrow?"

Before she had a chance to respond, Dr. Gates spoke up.

"Actually, Agent Booth, if you'd let me observe the interview—and possibly watch the video of the brother's interrogation—I may be able to help."

"Sure," Booth shrugged. "Bones, I'll see you tomorrow, 10 o'clock?"

Brennan's team dispersed; she and Dr. Gates were left alone on the platform. He really was quite attractive, and it had been a long time since she had been out with a man since dating opportunities were hard to come by in Maluku. Brennan didn't necessarily intend to start anything serious, but she had needs like everyone else. When she returned home, she had been hoping to initiate a relationship with Booth; that hadn't worked out, but she was left with an itch she couldn't quite scratch. She smiled at Dr. Gates, feeling slightly awkward.

"Well, Dr. Brennan, I'll let you get back to work," he said, returning her smile with a grin and a wink.

"I've changed my mind," she said abruptly.

"About what?" he asked, puzzled.

"About going out with you, Jason. I'd love to."

"Oh." He blinked. "Well, that was unexpected," he chuckled.

She frowned, not sure whether she should be offended.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled," he grinned. "When are you free?"

"Tomorrow?" she offered.

They quickly exchanged cell phone numbers and settled on a time. Brennan watched Dr. Gates leave the lab, a certain swagger evident in his gait. He turned briefly at the doors and gave her a little wave before disappearing around the corner. Brennan returned to the remains on her table, a pleased little smile gracing her lips.

* * *

A/N: The title of this chapter comes from the Robert Herrick poem, "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" - the message being, essentially, to seize the day.


	6. Lion in Winter

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Bones, nor do I make any money from these little stories.

Thanks so much to FauxMaven for her awesome work!

* * *

Sleeping in on a Saturday morning was a pleasure that Brennan thought she could get used to. In Maluku, without air conditioning, the heat and humidity woke her as soon as the sun was up. Before her trip, she was accustomed to putting in full days if they were working on a case; otherwise, she had begun occasionally going out to breakfast with Booth on weekends when he had Parker. Sleeping in, even if just an hour or two, was an indulgence she appreciated.

She was showered and dressed in plenty of time, however, and walking into the Hoover Building just before 10 o'clock. Dr. Gates—Jason, she corrected herself—was waiting for her in the lobby. They greeted each other, shaking hands; she liked the feel of his hands: warm, rough, and large. He was dressed casually, as usual, in jeans and a fitted long-sleeve t-shirt. He had a pendant of some sort suspended from a short cord around his neck; she reached out to touch it, to get a better look.

"An Aquitaine sundial," she commented. "It looks good on you."

His answering smile was full of charm, rivaling Booth's best work.

Brennan led Jason upstairs to meet Booth and they all proceeded to the interrogation rooms. Booth entered the room where Brent Fox was waiting while she and Jason went into the adjacent room to observe the interview. She was mildly surprised at Fox's appearance. While Cunningham had been somewhat short, with little muscle mass, Fox was the opposite. Tall and well-muscled, with a strong jaw sporting a respectable amount of stubble, he was not what she had been expecting.

Booth began with easy questions, getting a feel for the guy, as he would say. They listened as the interview progressed and nothing seemed out of the ordinary to Brennan. Fox said that Cunningham had been shy, but that he'd had a great sense of humor and had always been willing to give people the benefit of the doubt.

"Did Agent Booth tell him beforehand that Cunningham's dead?" Jason asked.

"No, I don't think so."

"Then why is he using the past tense?" wondered Jason.

Brennan frowned, paying closer attention as Fox described his former lover.

"I was upset that Stephen left town, yes. But he should have left years ago, I'd always told him that. I think he loved his parents too much. He was such a devoted son, even though they never did anything to protect him from David," Fox said, his voice coming clearly through the speakers. Brennan watched him shake his head sadly. "He cared about everyone, really. He had such a tender heart."

"So, you loved him, but you wanted him to move away?" Booth asked.

"I didn't want him to move far, I figured he would move in with me. He always said 'no' when I asked him to move in, but he really felt bad about it, that it hurt me. He was the type of guy who hated to hurt people's feelings, you know? Like I said, he was just too attached to his parents."

"If he loved his parents that much, what made him decide to leave?"

Fox scowled. "He got into a fight with David, as usual. David had gotten in trouble with his parole officer. He wasn't supposed to be living at home. Stephen even offered to help with his rent at a new place, if you can believe it. But David refused. Stephen said David threatened to…to kill him, if he didn't leave."

Brennan and Jason glanced at each other. David Cunningham did seem like the most plausible suspect, but she distinctly remembered that he really seemed to think Stephen was living somewhere else; she was fairly certain he had talked about him in the present tense, at least until they broke the news. And Brent Fox was talking about Stephen like he knew he was dead. She shared her thoughts with Jason, and he agreed that murderers often got tripped up by consistently using the past tense when referring to a victim before having been officially informed that the victim was deceased.

* * *

"We have no cause to hold Brent Fox," Booth told Brennan and Jason, back in his office. "Even David Cunningham will be released soon. We have nothing," he sighed.

"What about the fact that Fox kept using the past tense, before you even told him that Cunningham was dead?" Jason asked.

"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Booth said. "It's suspicious, but we can't arrest him just because of the way he talked."

"The forensics team didn't find anything at Cunningham's house?"

Booth shook his head. "Not a thing. They did bring in two computers, David's and a laptop that belonged to Stephen. If Stephen really was planning to leave, he didn't pack anything; all of his stuff was still in the house, boxed up in the attic."

"Why wouldn't David have thrown it all out?" Brennan asked.

"Well, you'd think that he would have gotten rid of the clothes and stuff if he'd known his brother was dead. It seems like he thought Stephen might come back for his stuff some day," said Booth.

"You want me to take a look at the computers? Compare the note to emails and whatever else is on there?" offered Jason.

"Sure. I'd love to get a warrant to search Brent Fox's house, but we don't have any cause yet. If you ID him as the author, that might be enough. Maybe. If we're lucky." Booth turned to Brennan. "What about you?"

"What about me?" she asked.

"Can't you work your magic, find something on the bones you missed?"

"There's nothing," she said, shrugging. "Believe me, we've double and triple checked everything."

"Alright." He turned to Jason. "Listen, I'll give you my number, you call my cell if you find anything conclusive."

"Where are you going?" Brennan asked.

"Hannah and I are taking Parker out. We did breakfast this morning and she's watching him now."

Brennan felt a brief pang of jealousy. Despite enjoying her leisurely morning, she did miss her breakfasts with Booth and his son.

"I'm sure you'll have fun, Booth," she said stiffly.

He nodded. "I'll swing by the lab this evening on the off chance that you work a miracle."

"I won't be in the lab, Booth." She hesitated. Absurdly, she started to blush. "Dr. Gates and I have plans."

"Oh." Booth blinked, looking between the two of them. Brennan thought she caught the most fleeting look of bewilderment on his face before his expression turned impassive. "Oh. Okay. Well, I guess I'll just give you a call tomorrow or something."

They all said good-bye somewhat awkwardly. Jason assured her that he would pick her up in the evening, and Booth took him to pick up hardcopies of emails and documents on the computers. When Brennan got to her car, she sat in the seat for a moment, head tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed. It was completely irrational that she should feel guilty for seeing other men; she might still love Booth, but he had clearly moved on, and she had needs that were going unmet. Why, then, had she been reluctant to tell him about her date with Jason?

The trilling of her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She checked the caller ID: Angela.

"Hey, Ang," she said.

"Hey, Bren. How's your morning going?"

"Alright. We talked to Brent Fox. I just left Booth and Dr. Gates."

"Booth and Gates, huh? And how did _that_ go?" Angela asked with a laugh.

"It was fine. What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, Bren. I saw the way Gates was looking at you, and you know how Booth gets."

"Angela, Booth is dating Hannah now, so he's got no reason to disapprove of Dr. Gates. He didn't mind at all when I told him we have a date tonight," Brennan said.

"You have a date? Why didn't you tell me?" Angela asked, simultaneously excited and exasperated.

"I just did," she frowned.

"Whatever." Brennan could practically hear her friend rolling her eyes. "Did you already get a new dress, or are you going out now?"

"I wasn't planning on getting a new dress. Although, I haven't bought anything new in a long time," she mused.

"No kidding. And make sure you buy some nice lingerie, too. I know it's been a while."

"Thanks for the reminder," she sighed. "Was there something you needed, or did you just call to tease me?"

"I did have reason for calling, actually. Do you know any good midwives?"

"Midwives? No, none. At least, none in this country. Why?"

"I had an appointment with my OB yesterday evening and I don't think he's a good fit," Angela told her, and then giggled. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Sorry, I don't know any. I can do some research if you want."

"That's so sweet of you, I really appreciate it."

"No problem. Why do you want to switch from an obstetrician to a midwife?"

"Well, I think that what I didn't like about this OB is pretty common with OBs, you know? I mean, my appointment lasted all of five minutes, and he totally blew off my questions, especially when I asked about whether some of the tests they want to do are safe and accurate."

"Do you think that a female OB might be better?" Brennan asked.

"I don't think so. I've been reading the books you gave me, and it's totally freaking me out about OBs and hospitals. It's just so crazy! I think a midwife would probably help me have the kind of pregnancy and birth I want. I talked to Jack and he's okay with using a birth center. We're not sure about homebirth—Jack kind of freaked out when I mentioned it—but it's not out of the question."

"Well, if you want a natural birth, a midwife is probably the best choice. I'll see what I can find. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure. And good luck tonight! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Brennan sighed. At least she now had a good way to kill time until her date.

* * *

A/N: The Lion in Winter was a 1966 Broadway play by James Goldman. It's centered on the lives of King Henry II and Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. The sundial that Jason Gates is wearing in this chapter is named after Eleanor of Aquitaine because she supposedly presented one to her husband, the King of England, as a gift.


	7. Moveable Feast

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Bones.

Thanks to the lovely FauxMaven for her hard work, despite having a rather busy life herself.

* * *

Brennan's afternoon had been productive. She had found a flirty little dress in the first shop she had tried, which had freed up her afternoon to research possible midwives and birth centers for Angela. An hour of Googling gave her a list of options for Angela to try, all of which came highly recommended. Feeling pleased that she had fulfilled her duties as a friend, Brennan began getting ready for her date with Jason. Her shower relaxed her, and she found that her beauty rituals helped get her in the mood for a night out. Forty-five minutes later, she surveyed herself in the mirror and felt satisfied with her reflection. She was applying a last coat of gloss when Booth called. She dashed into the other room, rummaged hastily through her bag for her phone, and finally found it.

"Brennan," she answered.

"Hey Bones. I just heard from your linguist. He's got some convincing evidence that Brent Fox wrote the farewell note, rather than the brother like we had thought. I'm getting a search warrant now. Hopefully we'll have the forensics team at Fox's house within the next couple of hours," Booth told her.

"That's good news," she said. "Should I come along?"

"Nah, don't worry about it. You just go and enjoy your date," Booth said, and disconnected the call.

Jason rang the bell promptly at 7 o'clock. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find him holding a modest bouquet of flowers. His smile was easy, and she couldn't help responding in kind. He was wearing the same Aquitaine sundial as before, but he had traded his t-shirt for a brick red plaid shirt under a dark gray wool military jacket. His hair, however, was plastered wetly to his head; water dripped from his jacket onto her welcome mat. She invited him in, stepping aside as he walked past her into the room.

"Still raining then?" she asked.

"Yeah, and of course I forgot my umbrella," he said, chagrinned. He offered her the flowers. As she accepted the bouquet, she caught him giving her an appreciative once-over.

"That shade of green looks lovely on you, Dr. Brennan," he complimented her.

"Thank you," she said. "You look quite nice, as well. And please, call me Temperance."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "I made a reservation for us at Cashion's Eat Place, is that okay?"

"I've never been there, but I'm sure it will be fine. Just let me put these in water."

While she filled a vase with water at the sink, she watched Jason poking around her apartment. Just as Booth had on his first visit to her apartment, Jason checked out her music collection first. Quickly satisfied, he moved on to perusing the titles of the books on her shelves. She dropped the flowers unceremoniously into the vase and went to collect her date and her umbrella.

* * *

Cashion's Eat Place was making a good first impression on Brennan. The circular bar in the middle of the room, surrounded by curving walls, was unique, and she was happy to have had the chance to spend a few minutes waiting at the bar for their table to be ready. The dining room was cozy and felt like a little neighborhood restaurant, although the menu was far from ordinary; the food was an interesting blend of American and Mediterranean cuisines. After much thought, she decided on the New Zealand Blue Nose Bass fillet, while Jason opted for the Bison Sirloin. They agreed to share the mezzethakia.

"So what do you think?" Jason asked her, making a sweeping gesture that encompassed the whole restaurant.

"It's great," she said. She looked briefly at the photographs on the walls, all portraits. "I can't believe I've never been here before."

He smiled. "I started coming here a lot when I was younger. They serve a limited menu from 12:00 to 2:00am at the bar. It was a good end to a date."

"And now that's too late for you, so you start off your dates here instead?" she teased.

Jason laughed comfortably. "You got me. Those hours are better spent home in bed, especially if the date's going well," he winked.

Brennan grinned. "Well, now that I know what you like to be doing in the early hours of the morning, why don't you tell me something else about yourself? How did you come to be a linguist at the Jeffersonian?"

"Oh, god, that's not interesting." He rolled his eyes. "No, it's not anything special. I couldn't make up my mind in college, you know? I tried archaeology for a while, loved the travel, but not digging in the dirt in the baking hot sun. Then I studied photography, but I was solidly mediocre." He chuckled, scratched at his stubbled chin. "I've always loved language, so I tried that next. I thought I would write, but ended up just sort of falling into linguistics." He shrugged apologetically. "Nothing nearly as fascinating as a crime-fighting, world-renowned anthropologist who authors best-sellers on the side," he said, smiling.

Brennan turned aside the compliment awkwardly. "Have you always lived in the DC area?"

"No, I moved here about four years ago from New York. Before that, I lived in Boston."

"Why did you leave New York?"

Jason winced, playfully exaggerating the expression. "I followed a girl."

"Really?" Brennan asked, fascinated.

"I was crazy about her," he shrugged.

Their waitress showed up at that moment, carrying a tray with small dishes of bite-sized appetizers. They spent a few minutes sampling the elegantly prepared foods. Brennan was hesitant to try the octopus with avocado puree, but loved the dates stuffed with mascarpone cheese. Jason speared a scallop with his fork and offered it to her; she leaned in and took a bite, surprised at how complementary the white truffle and chive cream was.

"So, that girl you followed…were you married?"

"No, not in the traditional sense." He hesitated. "She wanted to, but I told her that I didn't believe in marriage. Then things just kind of fell apart."

Brennan nodded sympathetically. "I know exactly what you mean. Marriage is an archaic and obsolete practice. The idea that two people might be meant to spend their entire lives together is preposterous."

"Well, I don't think it's that outlandish that a couple could stick together their whole lives. I just meant that I don't believe in having a third party sanction what is a fundamentally private and personal choice." Jason paused for a moment. "You know, I don't think I've ever met a woman who didn't believe in marriage."

"I guess I'm not your average woman," she smiled.

"That's for sure," he agreed, winking.

* * *

The next morning, Brennan woke up to her alarm. Stretching, she draped her arm over her face, shielding her eyes from the bright light coming through the window. The bad weather must have finally passed. Her date with Jason had gone quite well; their conversation had been effortless and stimulating, and the food was fantastic. After a few minutes remembering while gradually waking up, she got out of bed. She wanted to get to work early to see if the FBI forensics team had found anything at Brent Fox's house. After hurrying through her shower and throwing on some casual clothes, she called Booth's cell phone to see where she should meet him.

"Hey Bones," he said groggily. Apparently she had awakened him.

"Good morning, Booth. I thought you'd be up by now."

"Nah," he yawned, then cleared his throat. "Had a late night last night. You?" She could hear an indistinct female voice in the background, probably Hannah's.

"Not particularly," she said.

"Sorry, your date didn't go well?"

"It was fine. He didn't stay the night, though, if that's what you're asking."

His voice sounded clearer, more awake, when he replied, "No, I wasn't asking."

"Did you hear anything about what they might have found at Fox's house?"

"No, after I got the warrant, Hannah and I went out."

"I thought you had Parker?" she asked.

"Just for the day. He had a sleepover at a friend's last night," Booth explained.

"Well, should I meet you at your office then? I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Yeah, twenty minutes is fine." He paused while Hannah said something unintelligible. "Uh, how about forty-five minutes? See you then," he said hastily, disconnecting the call.

Brennan sighed, pocketed her phone, and decided she might as well have breakfast while waiting.

* * *

A/N: The title of this chapter, Moveable Feast, comes from the Hemingway memoirs of the same name.


	8. Atlas Shrugged

Disclaimer: I own no part of Bones, nor do I make any money from these little stories.

Thank you very much, to a wonderful beta, FauxMaven.. not only for proofreading and correcting my sometimes goofy phrasing, but also for doing a lot of brainstorming with me. You're the best!

* * *

Booth was late. Brennan stood outside his door, her coat held over her arm, tapping her foot impatiently. She was doing her best not to fume, but the few other FBI employees who were working that Sunday morning were studiously avoiding her gaze. Perhaps she wasn't keeping her expression as impassive as she thought she was. It was one thing to know that Booth was sleeping with someone else; most of the time, it didn't bother her much at all. But to be kept waiting while he tarried in bed with Hannah was infuriating. Finally he came around the corner, whistling, and she gave an exasperated sigh.

"Morning, Bones," he greeted her cheerfully.

"Booth, you're fifteen minutes late," she complained as he unlocked the door to his office.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I didn't think you'd mind."

"My time is very valuable, you know," she said haughtily.

"Actually, I did know that." Booth slipped off his suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack. "You ready to get to work?

Brennan really wanted to argue more, but she bit her tongue. "Fine." As a compromise, she remained standing in front of Booth's desk, her arms crossed.

"Good," he said, smiling briefly as he sat in his chair, bringing his computer to life. "Let's see what forensics found, and if there's anything relevant we can go check it out."

He typed in a password or two and then scrutinized the computer monitor, his eyes quickly scanning text. After a moment, he asked, "How was your date with Mr. Linguist?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. He was asking in a casual manner, but she could tell from the way his gaze had stilled that he was acutely interested in her response. "It's Dr. Gates, actually. Jason. And our date went quite well. He's invited me to go see a band called Mumford and Sons this week."

Booth turned to look at her, smirking. "What is he, some kind of hipster?"

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said with a frown.

Now it was Booth's turn to roll his eyes. "Nevermind."

He turned back to the computer monitor and read for another moment, clicking the mouse now and then. She huffed, impatient to move things along.

"Simmer down, Bones, I'm almost done." After a short pause, he leaned back in his chair, returning his gaze to her. "We might be in luck. They didn't find any evidence of a murder, but they did find part of a silver chain with a pendant on it. Here, come look."

Brennan walked behind Booth's desk, leaning over the back of his chair to look over his shoulder. On the computer screen was an image of silver cube with Roman numerals on each face. There was a short section of silver chain still threaded through the bail. The pendant looked familiar to her.

On a hunch, she asked, "Where are the photos we got from Cunningham's house?"

Booth pulled a file toward him and opened it, flipping through the papers until he came to the photos. Brennan leaned forward to get a better look. She moved a few photos aside until she came to the one she was looking for. It was a picture of Stephen Cunningham and Brent Fox, both of whom were smiling widely, their arms around each other. Around Cunningham's neck was the same cube pendant.

"Well, it's not proof Fox killed him, but it's something," Booth said.

Brennan nodded. "Let's take the pendant to the Jeffersonian, maybe we can prove that the pendant came from chain that was in the barrel," she suggested.

* * *

On the way to the Jeffersonian, Brennan called Angela to ask her to meet them at the lab. The artist had still been asleep and Brennan felt guilty for rousing her, but she was sure Angela was used to it by now. They agreed that Hodgins should come along, too. This arrangement left Booth and Brennan with some time to kill; they stopped to get a coffee on their way to the Jeffersonian, and then Brennan spent some time responding to emails while Booth sat on her couch and amused himself by interrupting her every other minute. After a while, he stood and started poking around her office, though what new finds he was hoping to discover, she couldn't guess. When he reached her desk, he flipped through her planner, and then opened her desk drawer to look through its contents.

"You have no sense of boundaries, Booth," she said as she typed. "Those are my personal things."

"You're not one to talk about disrespecting boundaries, Bones," he chuckled. "Hey, what are Jasper and Brainy Smurf doing in here?"

Brennan froze for a moment. She had kept Jasper and Brainy Smurf on her desk until somewhat recently. She wasn't entirely sure why she had put them in her desk, except that she no longer enjoyed having a constant reminder of her partner. She tried to come up with a response, with no luck. Thankfully, Booth didn't seem to need one.

In a very high pitched voice, he said, "Aww, it's so lonely in this dark drawer, don't you think, Jasper?"

Brennan glanced at him sharply. He was holding Brainy Smurf and making him walk across her desk. Jasper was in his other hand, and he was making the pig dance around on his two back feet.

"Oink, oink," he said, very pitifully. She could only stare.

"You got us out of bed for a puppet show?" Hodgins appeared in Brennan's doorway, with Angela right behind him.

"Dr. Hodgins! Angela!" Brennan greeted them, relieved to have a distraction. "We have something for you to look at."

"You mean besides Booth goofing off?" Angela grinned.

"Alright, alright," Booth said. "Bones, show them." He watched as she picked up the evidence tray with the pendant on it and handed it to Angela. "The FBI forensics team found it at Brent Fox's house, in a little box. Here's a photo of Cunningham wearing a similar necklace." He held out the photo and the artist took it.

Angela peered intently at the silver chain. "Well, this looks like a Tiffany Atlas pendant. I can't be sure it's not a knock-off, though. But if you look at the sections of chain, you can see that the links on all three pieces are the same shape. It is the same one he's wearing in the picture." She paused thoughtfully. "Let's see…"

She walked out of the office, and Brennan and the others followed her up onto the platform. She slipped on a pair of gloves and then laid the sections of chain end to end so she could measure the length.

"Twenty inches," she said. "Now if we look up this pendant on the Tiffany website and it comes with a twenty inch chain like this one, I think that'll be enough to say that these three pieces definitely go together."

A quick consultation of the Tiffany website showed that Angela was correct.

"I'd say we need to have another talk with Brent Fox," Booth said.

* * *

The police station where they had arranged to interrogate Brent Fox was small but well-kept. It was essentially one room, with a few desks arranged behind a counter. They were waved in by the woman manning the desk, and Deputy Lentini led them to the back of the building where their one interrogation room sat adjacent to their two holding cells. Lentini opened the door to the interrogation room and they entered, finding Brent Fox seated at the worn wood table. They sat down opposite him, Booth dropping a file folder onto the table.

He took a moment to survey their suspect before sliding the photo of Cunningham and Fox out of the folder and across the table.

"Do you recognize this picture?" Booth asked.

"Sure. It was our two year anniversary," Fox said. "Just a few months before Stephen disappeared."

"Oh yeah? Where did you guys go to celebrate?"

"We drove into the city, went to a restaurant, and stayed overnight."

Booth nodded slowly. "You exchanged gifts?"

Fox frowned. "I don't understand what this has to do with Stephen's murder."

"We're just trying to get a picture of the events leading up to his death," Booth shrugged.

Reluctantly, Fox pointed at the pendant Cunningham was wearing in the picture. "I gave him that," he said. "It's an Atlas cube pendant, from Tiffany's. He'd been wanting it for a while." He smiled tearfully. "He never took it off after I gave it to him."

"Did he give you something in return?" Brennan asked.

A faint pink crept across Fox's cheeks. "Yes. It was private."

Brennan leaned over and whispered to Booth, "I think he means it was sexual in nature."

"Yeah, I got that, Bones," he muttered. Turning his attention back to Fox, he said, "We didn't find the pendant on him, you know. Kind of strange if he never took it off, don't you think?" Booth waited for Fox to respond, but he didn't. "Someone had ripped it off his neck. Broke the chain."

Again, Booth waited for Fox to say something, but he was silent. He couldn't take his eyes off the photo of him and Cunningham.

Booth continued sternly, "You know where we found the pendant, don't you? You want to tell me how that pendant, and a piece of the broken chain, came to be in a little box on your dresser?"

Fox was quiet for another moment, and Brennan expected him to ask for a lawyer, but he surprised her, saying, "We did get into a fight. I'll admit that. I wanted him to move in with me. He wouldn't. I said that he couldn't love me then, and he said that was stupid. So I ripped the necklace off, and he left. That's it." His voice quavered as he finished his explanation.

"I don't think so," Booth said. "Why else would the rest of the necklace still be on his body? I think you two got into a fight. Maybe Stephen finally decided he was going to leave his abusive brother. But he didn't want to live with you, he wanted to really leave, go far away so he wouldn't be tempted to fall back into helping his parents and brother. And you couldn't deal with that, so you strangled him. Then you ripped off the necklace you gave him, stuffed him into a trash barrel, and dumped his body in the marsh. Then you used his email account to send a farewell note to his brother."

"No!" Fox gasped, looking horrified. "I didn't. You don't have any proof; you can't prove that's what happened. His brother killed him, I told you."

"No, he didn't. We can prove that you forged that email. You tried to make it look good; you stole from articles he'd written. But you weren't good enough, and our forensic linguist can prove it was you who wrote it."

"No, I didn't." Fox shook his head resolutely. "David wrote that email, I didn't."

Brennan was stumped. There wasn't enough forensic evidence to get a conviction. Jason's testimony would be called into question: the American court system doesn't like to rely on forensic linguistics. Apart from the note and the necklace, they had nothing.

A knock on the door interrupted the interrogation; Deputy Lentini poked his head into the room.

"Agent Booth, you got a phone call."

"Come on, Bones," Booth muttered.

They left the room and Brennan stood by the door while watching Booth talk on the phone. After a few minutes, he hung up and turned back to her, a satisfied smile on his lips. When he returned to her side, she started to ask him what the phone call had been about, but he shushed her. Frowning, Brennan followed him back into the interrogation room, resuming their seats across from Fox.

Booth stared at Fox, drawing out the anticipation. After a moment, Fox began to fidget under Booth's gaze.

"Did you know that there are traffic cameras at the intersection of Proctor and Dodge Streets?" he asked.

Fox blinked, confused. He shook his head.

"The Department of Transportation upgraded to a digital system a few years ago. They can keep footage on file for quite some time now. In fact, they still have the footage from around when Stephen was killed. And guess what we found?"

Fox's expression was filled with trepidation. Brennan smirked, imagining where the conversation was going.

"We found a great picture of you driving your truck in the direction of the marshes, the day before David Cunningham received an email from 'his brother'. And you know what was in the back of your truck?" Booth paused for dramatic effect. "A big, green trash barrel."

Fox put his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Booth and Brennan exchanged a gratified glance.

"He was leaving me," Fox whispered. "I told him that he should live with me, that I'd take care of him. But he didn't want me." He sobbed quietly. "I just couldn't stand it."

* * *

Brennan sat at the Founding Father's bar. Even though it was a Sunday evening, the restaurant was busy and filled with noise. She sat, nursing a glass of red wine, surrounded by people, yet still alone. The end of their case was bittersweet. She wasn't sure when she'd see Booth again; surely, to drop off her share of the paperwork (completed by herself, of course). But beyond that, it was up to chance and the unfortunate tendency people had to commit murder. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to see him more often than when they had a case; it was easier to forget if she didn't. But she missed him more than she was willing to admit.

One of the rowdy revelers crowding the bar bumped into her barstool, jostling her. She sighed. After a moment's indecision, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Jason's number. She didn't have to be alone if she didn't want to be.

* * *

A/N: Ahh, the end of another fic. I hope you all liked where I brought the characters. There will be a sequel to this piece, which I will hopefully start posting in a week or so.. it's pretty much all done.

The title of this chapter comes from the novel Atlas Shrugged. The phrase is the answer to the question of what Atlas should do upon noticing that the greater the effort he expended holding up the weight of the world, the heavier the world seemed to weigh on his shoulders: he should shrug. Brennan bears the weight of a lot of pain without letting it show.. maybe she needs to shrug now and then. Thanks to FauxMaven for coming up with this chapter title!


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